


In My Nature

by bauer



Series: Delta [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, An Attempt at Irony, Exhibitionism, Infidelity If You Squint, Jealousy, M/M, POV Outsider, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-14 17:30:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9196172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bauer/pseuds/bauer
Summary: Good times ahead in the GTA.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Credits to "In My Nature" by GTA ft. Karina. There are some in-universe tweaks to public decency (and a pinch sexism) in this fic. Let me know about missing tags, embarrassing typos, the like. Enjoy!

Matthews isn’t much of an alpha, if you ask Dylan. He reeks of it, sure—a bitter, woody smell that makes Dylan’s nose itch and his skin prickle—but nothing about him demands any sort of _deference_.

Take the condo, for instance. It’s where everyone (Dylan, the Leafs guys, a couple York fuckers Mitch is friends with) was told to meet up, but it’d been awkward, what with Matthews’ _dad_ being there. Mr. Matthews, a beta, who obviously owned the place. Dylan didn’t get how Matthews could stand it. Coming back from Arizona to his billet family’s whole basement chafed Dylan’s nerves, knowing it wasn’t really his. But it’s not like the OHL stipend stretched far enough to cover rent. Matthews has no excuse.

Matthews’ claim on Mitch is weak as shit, too.

They weren’t at the condo long before heading out; people split up to get cars to some bar _Auston, really, it’s fine_ likes. Dylan sticks close to Mitch. Meaning he shares a car with Auston, too, who slides into shotgun without a second thought. He doesn’t even notice when Dylan throws his arm around Mitch in the back of the car, boxes him in, sticks his nose against the base of his neck and breathes in. Underneath an annoying layer of red-hot, Mitch smells the same as he did over the summer, a sharp sweet-sour, and sparks the same rolling heat in Dylan’s stomach.

“Hey,” Dylan couldn’t help humming lowly, leaning further in, nudging Mitch’s head further back. It makes Mitch squirm, which Dylan enjoys. He runs his nose along Mitch’s neck again, and catches onto something else as he skims by Mitch’s ear. Last time, it’d been cut with chlorine and sunscreen and sweat, but Dylan could still pick that scent out, easy as anything. “Smelling a little ripe there, buddy. You about to go in heat?”

He tries to turn it into a question, make it less creepy. Like he hadn’t counted the months since Mitch’s last heat before accepting his invitation, hadn’t _hoped_ this was why he reached out.

God, but Mitch smells good. Dylan get so caught up in breathing him in that gets caught up in it, until Mitch squirms and knocks Dylan’s head. When Dylan looks up, Mitch’s mouth stretches wide and says, “Uh, not for a few more days, hopefully. I like to actually be around my family during Christmas, you know?”

“Oh, yeah, no, for sure,” Dylan says, fighting the urge to argue. He forces himself to look away from the flush on Mitch’s cheeks and sit back in his seat. A few moments later he catches Auston's gaze in the rear view mirror. Of course, Auston just smiles and jerks his chin at Dylan. Asshole.

“So, back at it with World Juniors?” Auston asks, casual as anything.

“...Yeah,” Dylan responds. _Obviously_.

“It’s really cool, that you’re getting another go. Especially after how last year went down,” he says, just as fucking casually—

Dylan’s still inhaling through his nose when Mitch kicks the back of Auston's seat and says, “Hey, fuck off with that shit.”  
  
“What? We fucking bombed my first year, too, and even after last year, I’d do some things over over if I could,” Auston replies, rolling his shoulders back. And it probably is that casual for him, the difference between playing for national team and the fucking _Toronto Maple Leafs_.

Mitch scoffs, showy, and says, “Yeah, fuck you and your ugly bronze medal. Couldn’t do shit this year anyway, since gold’s coming back to its rightful home up north.”

“Fucking right,” Dylan says automatically, ignoring his brief spasm of anxiety to knock knuckles against Mitch’s outreached hand. The rest of the ride is civil, boring. Dylan bites back saying anything else, settles for letting his fingers wander over Mitch’s hands, his hair, his shoulders, behind Auston's back.

Any hope that the bar will be a lowkey sort of place is squashed once they arrive. It’s more of _club_ , to begin with, the kind that could never exist in Erie. A wannabe models line up outside the door, no cameras policy, doesn’t-give-a-fuck-about-broke-college-kid-money kind of club.

Auston and Mitch get waved in immediately, of course. Dylan tugs at his button-up and doesn’t make eye contact with the bouncer as he trails in after them.

The interior is even more impressive than the outside, lush and seductive and overwhelming. The crowd isn’t crushing, but there are enough alphas and omegas around, with everyone wanting the same thing, that it creates a pheromone-charged feedback loop, getting everyone drunk the second the walk through the door.

So, not really the casual night Dylan expected, but he could get with it. Doesn’t really have a choice.

Auston breaks off to find a table or whatever, because he’s boring. Not to mention _stupid,_ since that leaves Mitch begging _Dylan_ to be his dance partner. “Come on, I need a big, strong alpha to keep the creeps away,” Mitch says, at least half joking, and who is Dylan to turn him down?

Once they’re on the dance floor, it becomes even more obvious to Dylan that Mitch is kidding himself if he thinks he can make it through the next few days without going into heat. They’ve gone out together before—not to places like this—and Mitch has never been opposed to some grinding between friends, but this time is different. Still fun, playful, but the longer they’re out there, the less of a joke it becomes. Mitch spends less time jumping around with the group of omegas they end up next to and more time pressing into Dylan, rubbing up against him, neck rolling. Dylan would squeeze his hips and get a wave of hazy, warm want in return. Mitch _feels_ hot under his hands, and when Dylan turns him around so they’re face to face, he gets caught up by his slack mouth, the pinched look around his eyes.

It’s really fucking hot. Dylan wants to do so many things to him, over and over again. Not even thinking, he leans in, says, “We should go.”

It snaps Mitch out his haze. He shakes his head, then nods, then grabs Dylan’s hand to lead them out of the crowd. Dylan doesn’t even get to fully process the victory before Auston's scent catches his nose again, and he realizes he’s getting pulled _deeper_ into the club, not out.

Evidently, Auston succeeded in claiming some space, a long, open section of booth covered by a few of the guys they came with and some new, sweet-smelling friends. The big alpha himself is situated in the corner, legs spread and a beer in hand. Mitch drags Dylan over, sitting them both next to Auston.

Dylan settles in and tries very hard not to project any of his seesawing emotions: a twitchy anger to get his knot wet already, a bitter jealous anger that Mitch chose to go back to Auston, the possessive pride of knowing he returned Mitch _reeking_ of himself. There’s no way Auston hasn’t noticed, even though he isn’t do anything to counteract it, doesn’t even acknowledge Dylan at first. He only leans forward briefly to say something to Mitch, who nods, before sitting back and saying to Dylan, genuinely, “Having fun?”

“What?” Dylan asks, thrown.

“Like, are you enjoying yourself? Feeling nice and confident for the big tourney? Pressure can get to a guy if you’re not up for it,” Auston says as he waves over a waiter, a pretty little thing who’s only here to convince rich assholes to buy obnoxious, marked up bottles of champagne. “You want something to drink, Dylan? Mitch?”

Mitch shrugs off the offer as Dylan bites out, “I’m good, thanks.”

“Are you sure? Because—”

“I don’t need you buying my drinks, Auston,” Dylan snaps. Auston raises an eyebrow, an _as you wish,_ before turning backs to the waiter. And Dylan almost falls for it, wants to blow all the cash he’s been saving for his next batch of sticks right now, just to prove he can. He bites back the impulse, and a few moments later he lets himself get distracted by a waft of limeade and a wicked smile that comes in with a few new additions to the booth.

The girl, Zoe, is nice, and seats herself so Dylan can still see Mitch’s profile over her shoulder. He tries not to take advantage of that, he really does, but he can’t help his attention being dragged away when Mitch’s scent really starts seeping into the air. Zoe looks too, so he can’t feel too bad.

At some point, Mitch had turned completely away from Dylan, head tucked into Auston's neck. It gave Dylan an excellent view of the long line of Mitch’s back, down to the slick-soaked seat of Mitch’s briefs, the outline Auston's hand working under them. One of them had tugged Mitch’s jeans down around his thighs, twisting him up in them, keeping him from getting any real leverage.

Zoe whistles, low. “Well, smelled that one coming,” she says. Dylan isn’t sure if she meant Mitch’s heat hitting or Auston's responding like this, but it doesn’t really matter. Before he can think of anything to say, Auston is moving again, his hand coming free. The light catches on his wet fingers for a few seconds, before he shoves them into Mitch’s waiting mouth. Then he leans in and starts talking, too low to hear over the music.

Dylan swallows, and then says to Zoe, “Yeah. Guess it’s a place for it, eh?” Now that it’s later in the night, he can smell more matings brewing in other corners of the club, neon signs screaming _come see us, fuck off._ Others around the table are starting to watch, too, with strangers around the perimeter either creeping away or closer to the show.

There are plenty of people around to see the small dip pf Mitch’s chin, and Auston's subsequent drop to the floor. Mitch can barely sit up before he’s pushed back down, twisted around until his ass hangs over the ledge of the seat. His legs are pushed up against his chest, folding him in half, and Auston doesn’t even have to say anything for Mitch to twine his arms around them. Dylan can only see them in profile, but he can remember how vulnerable Mitch looks in that position when you’re kneeling in front of him, how pink he gets, how absolutely necessary it feels to get a taste of him. It’s no surprise when Auston leans in and licks a long stripe along Mitch’s ass, before burying his face for good.

Mitch moans, loud and high, and his face has a sort of manic openness to it that no one could mistake. The atmosphere deepens, both of their scents humidifying the air around them. Dylan could practically feel the grime of it on his skin.

Zoe inhales deeply, says, “God, they smell amazing together,” and Dylan grinds his teeth together.

Dylan feels so fucking stupid, sitting there watching the strong line of Auston's jaw as he takes Mitch apart. And he knows he’s _really_ fucking stupid, because some part of him is still convinced it should be him, right up to the point where Auston draws back, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and says, “You want it?”

Everyone in the room can smell how ready Mitch is, how wet, even before he says anything. _It should be me,_ Dylan still thinks, _It could be anyone but it should be me._ He imagines it, throwing Auston to the side and sliding his own dick into Mitch, knotting him tight in front of everyone, having him _thank_ Dylan for take him back.

It’d be a mess; no one ever calls bouncers, let alone cops, on shit like this. An alpha staking his rightful territory wherever he wants? Absolutely, all is as God intended. But cutting in on a mating going this well, objectively, especially when there’s a preexisting claim (nevermind that he overrode Dylan’s in the first place)? Hell no.

Auston talking again drags Dylan out of his rumination, saying to Mitch, “Are you sure you want _my_ knot? No one else’s?”

And Mitch looks right at Dylan, into his eyes. Dylan still fucking hopes, for split second, when something sad flashes across Mitch’s face, but then he turns back to Auston and says something, too quiet to hear.

Auston says, “What?”

And Mitch says, brokenly, “Please, Auston, I want you. Need your knot so bad.”

Auston smiles, sits back down on the booth, and says, “Prove it.’

Some part of Dylan knew, has known since the beginning of the season and the texts stopped pouring in, but hearing it, seeing Mitch scramble to nail himself on Auston cock, leaves him ice-cold, frozen in his seat.

Once he’s on, Mitch doesn’t hold back, either. It’s easy to see his athleticism then, as he’s effortlessly bouncing on Auston’s dick. He makes a pretty sight for the crowd, too, naked from the waist down with that heat-dumb look on his face. He only stops for a few seconds once, to shake through his own orgasm, before he goes back to working towards the real prize.

The show closes up the closer they get, heads tucked close, clinging to each other as their movements slow, Auston guiding the movements so that Mitch is firmly planted for when the knot starts to form. The crowd gets bored and starts to disperse, uninterested in the waves of contentment coming off an omega that isn’t theirs. Dylan watches until the last muscle stops twitching, until someone pulls his chin to the side.

“Listen,” Zoe says, kindly but conclusively, “Your friends are really hot, but I think they’re a little occupied right now. Do you want to be similarly occupied, or should I go find someone else?”

Dylan should say yes. She’s pretty enough, sweet enough. What he says is, “I have a curfew.” It’s true. He shouldn’t have come out in the first place.

Her face falls, barely, and she doesn’t stay long after that.

Everyone else has paired up, or made their way back onto the dance floor.

The curfew wasn’t a lie. He should never have gone out in the first place.

No one really notices when he slinks off, tail between his legs, and calls an Uber.

**Author's Note:**

> [And where to reach me, ft. literal actual dicks.](http://ratbarnaby.tumblr.com)


End file.
